


We were not meant for this world

by jomipay



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jongeorgie, M/M, Nightmares, Pet Adoption, Tags May Change, Treating injuries, cw for blood, jonmartin, nothing graphic, the admiral is an avatar of love, timsasha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26167285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jomipay/pseuds/jomipay
Summary: A collection of cannon adjacent or compliant ficlets.Chapter 1. Let's play pretend- JonMartin for h/c week 2020, Jon and Martin take a moment to distract themselves by imagining a different lifeChapter 2. I slay dragons in my sleep- TimSasha, Tim has a nightmare, Sasha comes over to helpChapter 3. The Admiral- JonGeorgie, Jon and Georgie adopt The Admiral.Summary for most recent chapter:The cat is a ginger tabby with short fur and white socks and Jon very much enjoys the asymmetry of it’s white paws. He watches as it picks a fish toy up in its mouth and jerks its neck to toss it up in the air and swipe at it, chasing after it when it's batted away. After a while, the cat sits upright, tail curled around its paws and makes eye contact with him.It makes a noise, an emphatic prrrrbt, and then it picks the fish up and makes its way towards Jon, tail straight up and swishing gently side to side. The cat rubs against his feet and then drops the fish, staring up expectantly. Jon raises a brow. Does...does the cat want him to play fetch?
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 16
Kudos: 66





	1. Let's play pretend

**Author's Note:**

> This work will be a collection of shorter cannon-compliant or cannon-adjacent ficlets. Tags will update with new chapters.  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a fill for hurt/comfort week 2020, largely drawing inspiration from the treating injuries/pretend prompts. Enjoy!

**Let's Play Pretend**

Jon knew he was bleeding. The blood was slick and wet, running down his arms and his face, though he did not remember feeling any pain when he hit his head. When Jon met Martin’s eyes, there was a wild concern there which, left unchecked, could very well edge into terror. He had a feeling the gash on his head must not look very good.

“Martin,” Jon started, reaching a hand towards him. Blood dripped off it in little rivulets. Martin’s eyes traced the drops as they splattered on the dirt. Of course that did nothing to quell the terror in his eyes, and it did need to be quelled. Terror was dangerous here, dangerous everywhere, now.

“Martin!” He repeated. Martin’s eyes snapped up and met Jon’s.

“I’m alright, really. Why don’t we find a place to sit down for a while?”

Martin nodded. “Yeah—Yeah, okay.”

Jon searched around them, took a good hard look at all the places around them only he could see. They would be safe here, for now, having outrun their current danger. Jon found an outcropping of large rocks that would provide a bit of shelter. He led Martin over and sat down, pulling Martin with him. He leaned back against the rocks and pulled Martin’s head into his lap, so he would not be able to see the cut on his head. Jon could feel it healing already. It would be completely gone soon.

“That’s it.” He cooed down at Martin. “We’re just going to rest for a moment.”

Martin shifted in his lap to look up at him. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Fine, just a little tumble. Looks worse than it is.” A little tumble had actually been a great tumble that culminated in Jon smacking his head against a rather sharp rock, but the result was the same. It would be healed in a matter of minutes, and there would be nothing to worry about. The cuts on his arms and hands already were, all that remained was the little trails of blood.

Jon took the opportunity to glance over Martin for injuries, landing on a bloody section of his trousers that had been torn open to reveal an angry pink and oozing scrape on his thigh.

“Here, let’s get this washed up.”

He pulled a gauze pad and a wound wash out of one of the bags. He soaked the gauze pad in the solution and Martin hissed as it made contact with his inflamed skin.

“Sorry, sorry, I know it stings.”

“It’s okay.” Martin sat up, taking the wash from Jon. “Can I clean you up?”

“I don’t see why not. I don’t much fancy going around with blood stuck in my hair.”

Martin started with his arms and hands, wiping away the blood and revealing nothing but healed skin underneath, dotted with new scars. Jon knew the wound on his head was almost healed by now and all that Martin would see was a small gash, surrounded by a disproportionate amount of dried and drying blood. It did not sting when Martin pressed the pad to his head.

“What? It’s like…It’s like—God—” Martin swallowed and laughed, a dry and hollow imitation of his normal laugh. “It’s like you didn’t even hit your head.”

Martin shook his head and swayed on his knees. “I forgot you healed so quickly.”

Jon could hear the panic in Martin’s voice, knew this was reminding him of just how inhuman Jon was. He didn’t need to look into his mind to know how that scared Martin.

Martin pulled a bottle of water from his pack and seemed to contemplate it, almost hiding the way his hands were shaking.

“Since we don’t really need to drink it, do you mind if I…?” He mimed turning the bottle over and dumping it on Jon’s head.

“Oh—oh, no please do.”

The water felt nice over his head, and Martin’s fingers running through his hair and scratching against his scalp as he worked the blood out of it felt even nicer. He wished they could have done this before, that they had a different life. A life where they could be doing this for real, one where Jon could be sitting between Martin’s legs in bath and Martin could be working shampoo into his hair instead of blood out of it.

“If we had a different life,” Jon began, “If we weren’t…here…”

“Jon,” Martin started, stilling his hands in his hair. “I’m not sure I like where this is going.”

“Just, pretend with me for a moment. Indulge with me in a fantasy.”

“What brought this on?” Martin’s tone was cautious, but curious.

“I was just thinking,” Jon felt heat rise to his face but persisted, “About how nice this would be, if you were actually washing my hair, in the bath, with some nice smelling shampoo or something.”

Martin blew out a breath. “Oh.” He was silent for a moment. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Jon hummed his assent. “I thought we could think about other things that night be nice, too, together.”

“Okay, I suppose I could do that.” Martin still sounded unsure, but Jon went on regardless.

“What would you do? For a living, I mean, in a different world. If you could have any job you wanted, what would it be?”

Martin’s hands started tugging through Jon’s hair again as he mulled over his answer.

“The only thing that’s coming to mind is a baker.”

Jon chuckled. Being a baker suited Martin.

“Hey, don’t laugh at me, I can’t think of anything good!” He swatted Jon, lightly on the arm.

“No, no, being a baker is a noble profession. And one I think you would be quite good at.”

Martin hummed to himself, disbelieving.

“You could have a little café, have all different kinds of loose-leaf tea that you paired with your pastries.”

Martin sighed. “I miss pastries.”

Martin took out a second water bottle and poured it over the ends of his hair.

“Alright then, same to you, if you could do anything, what would you do?”

Jon took a moment to think. “I think I’d actually quite enjoy being a librarian.”

Martin laughed, and this time it sounded more like him.

“You can’t be serious!” Martin insisted.

“What?” Jon asked, turning around to look at Martin, and then tracing the outline of his smile. “I would get to read a lot, and I would never run out of things to read, and it would be peaceful. Nice and quiet.”

“Yeah, suppose that does sound like you.”

Martin finished with his hair and moved to sit next to him. Jon leaned into him, took one of his hands and laced their fingers together.

“We could watch movies, under a big blanket on a couch with tea. With warm tea.” Jon said as he stroked his thumb over the back of Martin’s hand.

Martin moved closer and rested his head on Jon’s shoulder, not seeming to mind that it was damp from where his wet hair had dripped on it.

“You don’t even like movies.”

“Most movies.” Jon corrected. “I like documentaries and there are certain films I enjoy. And besides, you like watching movies, so I would watch with you.” Jon punctuated this by kissing the top of Martin’s head, smushing down his curls with his lips.

“We could watch _Kill Bill_.” Martin suggested, turning his face and smiling into Jon’s shoulder.

“Yes, I suppose we could.”

They sat quietly together. The ambient noises of terror were less here. Not gone—never gone—but less. Jon stared at their interlocked fingers. He stared at them, at all the spaces they fit together. Martin’s larger fingers slotted perfectly around Jon’s thinner, bonier fingers.

“Would you want to get married?” Jon asked, quietly, almost a whisper. He almost couldn’t believe he’d said it, but there it was, spilling from his mouth, no hint of compulsion present in his voice.

Martin jerked his head up and coughed.

“Are you proposing?”

Heat bloomed across Jon’s cheeks and crept down his neck.

“Well, hardly,” he spluttered, “It’s not like we can even logistically manage that here. Who would even officiate?”

Martin snorted. “I bet Helen would, if we asked. I bet Helen would be _thrilled_ , actually.”

A shocked laugh escaped Jon’s throat. “Or we could go to Annabelle, have her metaphysically bind us together like Agnes and Gertrude.”

Jon made a face. He didn’t like the implications of what being bound to him might do to Martin, all of the things, all of the pain he might be able to feel through him. “Nevermind I said that. That would be a very bad idea indeed. That was a bad joke. Poor taste.” Jon waved a hand, clearing the air of the sentiment.

“I don’t know that I’d mind that.” Martin mumbled. “At least not in theory. I guess I just like the idea of our souls being tied together.”

Jon swallowed against the lump in his throat. A younger version of himself would have called that silly, laughed at the idea, but not now. Martin laid his head back down against Jon’s shoulder and Jon wrapped both arms around him, pulling him closer.

“So are you proposing, or?”

Jon pressed another kiss to Martin’s hair and chuckled quietly against it.

“No, but I would. In another place, in another life. I would want to, I do want to. Sorry this isn’t coming out right.”

“No, no I think I get it.” Martin said. “You would want to get married?” Martin shifted, so he could look up at Jon.

“To you?” Jon asked. “Yes. I never thought I would, but, well the right person and all that.”

“So romantic Jon, so eloquent.” Martin teased.

“Oh, shut it.” Jon scowled, but there was no heat to it. He jabbed at Martin’s sides, where he knew he was ticklish and Martin wriggled around in his arms. 

“You never answered.” Jon said, once Martin had settled again.

“Of course I’d want to marry you, Jon.” Jon could hear Martin rolling his eyes.

Jon cleared his throat, suddenly finding it very difficult to speak. “Of course.” He squeaked.

“Of course.” Martin repeated.

Jon took one of Martin’s hands in his again. He spread his fingers, and brought them to his face to examine them. “I think silver would look quite nice with your skin tone.”

“Always liked the idea of silver jewelry.” Martin mused. “Would you like silver?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t care. I’d just want mine to match yours.”

Martin sniffed and buried his face in Jon’s neck.

“Right.” He said, so quietly Jon almost missed it.

They sat like that for a while. Breathing quietly together. Existing quietly together. Jon closed his eyes and allowed himself to picture a life that was no longer within their grasp. A life where they could sit together in the evenings, sleep wrapped around each other every night sleeping with nothing stalking their dreams. He imagined their hands, intertwined the way they were now, only with matching bands of silver on each ring finger. A loud noise in the distance jarred Jon from the fantasy. They had to move on. Sitting there, huddled together, clinging to each other, they were targets. They were putting on a very explicit display of precisely how much they meant to each other, how completely devastating it might be to lose the other. It was information they could not keep to themselves, but better not to flaunt it. Jon heaved himself to his feet, pulling Martin up after him by their linked hands.

“We have to keep going.”

Martin nodded and shouldered his pack and just like that, they began their journey again. Jon knew what lied ahead, what was waiting for them, though he could not predict the future. Whatever it was, there was a concrete certainty, coiled heavily in his stomach, that told him that it would not be okay. Martin squeezed his hand, tightening his fingers around Jon’s. Jon lifted their joined hands to his face, kissed the back of Martin’s, drank in the small, perfect smile that crossed his lips in response. They had a way to go yet, until they met their uncertain fate, and Jon could not bring himself to feel anything but love for the man at his side. He could not bring himself to feel anything but gratitude, and an affection so deep he would happily drown in it—so great even the end of the world was not enough to take it away.


	2. I slay dragons in my sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim has nightmare, Sasha comes over to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TimSasha- Sasha comforts Tim after a nightmare

**I slay dragons in my sleep**

Tim woke with a started and blinked furiously into the darkness. His surroundings came to him in waves as his heart returned to a more natural rhythm. He was in bed. He was in _his_ bed. The sheets were soft in his balled-up fists, the pillow was damp from sweat under his head. He wasn’t standing in an abandoned theatre, there were no clowns. He was just lying in bed. It was a dream. It was just a dream. He sat up and stretched awkwardly over his bedside table to turn on the lamp. The dark was never one of his bigger fears, but the sight of his room bathed in lamplight still slowed his rapid heartbeat. He untangled the blankets from his legs, pulling them apart and reorienting them so he could crawl back under them. He’d always moved a lot in his sleep. Danny had told him it was because, ‘ _You fight dragons in your sleep.’_ Danny had been going through a ‘knights and dragons and treasure’ phase when he’d said that. They used to build blanket forts Tim would read to him and they’d fall asleep there if their parents didn’t catch them and make them go to bed. Danny always curled up right next to him, even though he knew he’d get kicked. Bad dreams just made the kicking and jerking worse.

He ran a shaking hand through his sweat damp hair and grimaced at the unpleasant texture.

He inhaled one large, calming breath, held it, and let it out, slowly.

“Just a dream.” He tried to assure himself.

The details were already fading. But it wasn’t _just a dream_ , was it? It was _the_ dream, and it was less of a dream than a memory, the worst moment of his life carved into his mind so perfectly that his subconscious could play it for him whenever it wanted. He dropped his head in his hands and ground his palms against his eyes, willing the ache in them to go away. He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand, went to his contacts and hovered his thumb over the call button before having second thoughts. It was nearly 3 in the morning. There was little hope that Sasha would even be awake, and if she wasn’t, he didn’t want to wake her. He typed out a text instead. ‘ _Are you awake?’_

He tossed the phone to the other side of the bed, already resigned to having to weather whatever this was alone. He’d just call off sick tomorrow, or drink coffee or come in late or something, because the chances he was getting back to sleep were slim. He settled back into the covers, wrapping them tightly around himself despite the fact that his body temperature still hadn’t come down to normal quite yet. His phoned buzzed and he dismantled his blanket cocoon to scrabble across the bed and grab it and read Sasha’s reply. _‘Yes. Why?’_ There were the little bouncing ellipses that told Tim she was still typing, and then, ‘ _Is everything okay?’_

He tapped the phone against his chin, carefully considering his answer. _‘I had a dream…about what happened to my brother.’_ He reread it and then amended it with, ‘ _I just wanted someone to talk to for a bit. Couldn’t get back to sleep.’_ The ellipses appeared and then reappeared several times until finally Sasha sent back, _‘I’m coming over.’_ His pulse throbbed in his ears, he figured she would just call. He ran his hands through his hair again and was reminded of how sweaty it was. He definitely was not in a state for company, especially not company as pretty as Sasha.

He jammed his thumb on the call button for her contact. Part of him knew her decision had already been made and there was nothing he could do to change it. The phone rang twice and then she picked it up. Voice as chipper and light as ever, despite the hour.

“Don’t even bother, I’m already leaving.”

“You don’t need to do this, really, I’m fine. I just wanted someone to talk to.” Tim tried, leaping out of bed to do something, anything with his hair.

“I’m not gonna leave you to stew alone in your hour of need.”

Tim didn’t have anything to say to that, so he just huffed instead.

“Besides, you’d do the same for me. See you in a few. Toodles.” And then she hung up.

Of course Tim would do the same thing for her, but that was the status quo of their relationship. Tim was the one always reaching, pushing, nudging at the invisible barrier. He’d been trying to get her to spend more time with him for months, and now he was a mess and she just, did it? At the drop of a hat, first sign of distress? Had he actually been reading their relationship wrong, was there really something there, and not something his stupidly optimistic brain had created to keep him occupied and hopeful?

Well first thing was first. Sasha didn’t live that far away and something _had_ to be done with his hair. He leapt up off the bad and scurried into his bathroom to tame it into something that was at least presentable. He changed his clothes and distractedly picked at the random clothes and other things scattered across his bedroom floor. Then he plopped down on his couch to wait. This whole thing had been a good distraction if nothing else. He was too busy setting himself and his flat to rights to think about circuses or clowns. He was just getting twitchy, wondering if maybe he had enough time to throw the dishes in the sink in the dishwasher when the buzzer blared, making him jump.

Sasha was wearing flannel pajama bottoms and an old hoodie that was roomy on her slender frame. The bottoms were not quite long enough for her tall frame and hung about her ankles, a few inches too short. They settled on the couch, in front of Tim’s television. The bedroom was not neutral enough territory and Tim was not willing to broach that on this particular occasion. Sasha flopped next to him on the couch. She dropped a little duffel bag at her feet. Tim nudged it with his foot.

“What’s in the bag?”

Sasha stifled a yawn. “Clothes for work. Not gonna go back to my apartment beforehand if I don’t have to.”

She swiped the remote off the coffee table and started flipping through Tim’s streaming options.

“Oh, you’re also buying me breakfast in the morning.” She arched one elegant brow at him and glared through the large frames of her glasses before devoting her attention once again to the telly.

“Fair.” Tim replied. “What are we watching?”

“How about Bake Off? Something nice and fluffy to keep the nightmares away.”

Tim nodded. Bake Off sounded great. Anything sounded great, really. It was still kind of surreal that Sasha was there. His addled mind hadn’t quite caught up yet. Sasha started an episode and Tim got up to grab a blanket and turn off the lights. He grabbed an extra blanket for Sasha before settling back in on the couch.

Sasha curled her feet up underneath her and spread the blanket over her legs. Tim wrapped himself up in his own blanket. It was old, something Danny had gotten for him on one of his international adventures. It had started out a bit scratchy but the texture had been tamed down to something softer and more comfortable over time.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the soothing sounds of bakers fretting over dough. Eventually Sasha spoke.

“Did you want to talk about it?” She didn’t take her eyes away from the screen, giving Tim the privacy to wrestle with the question without scrutiny.

He thought about it. What was there really to say? He didn’t want to talk about it, not right now.

“No, I don’t think so.”

He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them.

“Bake Off is helping.” He muttered.

Sasha side-eyed him. “Good.” She sighed. “I know I wouldn’t want to be by myself.”

She scooted closer to him, just slightly, but it set Tim’s nerves alight.

“Yeah, thanks for this.”

“No problem.” She smiled. She had such a beautiful smile. It made his insides squirm, but in the good way.

The first episode ended and the next started and Tim yawned, finally feeling tired again.

“You should go back to sleep.” Sasha told him. She patted her thigh in invitation.

There was no universe in which Tim would refuse such an invitation. He twisted himself to he could lie down on his side with his head on her thigh. He shifted so he could look at her.

“What are you doing up, anyway?”

Sasha kept her eyes fixed on Bake Off and absent-mindedly brought a hand to card through his hair. His scalp prickled under her fingers and the sensation travelled down his neck. She didn’t comment on the dampness of his hair, which he was thankful for. He didn’t mind that she was currently mussing it either. If she wanted to mess up his hair all she had was his full and enthusiastic support.

“Just general insomnia, I suppose. I’m always up at weird times.”

He resisted the urge to push his head up into her fingers. They’d been pretty chummy now for a few weeks, seemingly recovered from whatever it was that had happened in the fallout of their entanglement. He didn’t want to push it, he really didn’t want to mess anything up, not if it meant that there could be more of this.

“Are you comfortable, I can get you another blanket, or a pillow?” He offered.

“Nope, I’m okay with what I’ve got. And you’ll keep me warm enough, won’t you?”

“Oh, I can keep you plenty warm.” He waggled his eyebrows at her and she rewarded him with a laugh.

“But really, I have been known to kick people in my sleep.”

He watched as she turned the corner of her mouth up into a smile before turning one brown eye on him. “Sleep.” She commanded. “Stop worrying about me.”

Tim made a show of rolling his eyes.

“Yes, Queen Sasha.”

She snorted and shifted, so that she was half reclining against the arm of the couch. Tim scooted up a bit and moved his head so it rested on her hip.

“Besides,” Sasha said around a yawn, “If you kick me I’ll smack you.”

Tim chuckled and placed an arm gently over one of her legs before cradling it to his chest. She kept her hand in his hair, gently carding her fingers through it as it dried. He would give anything for more of this, more of this easy intimacy, this careful affection. He thought maybe there was more of it to be had if he was lucky. He eventually closed his eyes and drifted into unconsciousness barely registering the feelings of gentle fingers still in his hair and his last thought before drifting off completely was that at this moment he was very lucky indeed.


	3. The Admiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cat is a ginger tabby with short fur and white socks and Jon very much enjoys the asymmetry of it’s white paws. He watches as it picks a fish toy up in its mouth and jerks its neck to toss it up in the air and swipe at it, chasing after it when it's batted away. After a while, the cat sits upright, tail curled around its paws and makes eye contact with him. 
> 
> It makes a noise, an emphatic prrrrbt, and then it picks the fish up and makes its way towards Jon, tail straight up and swishing gently side to side. The cat rubs against his feet and then drops the fish, staring up expectantly. Jon raises a brow. Does...does the cat want him to play fetch?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Georgie adopt the Admiral.

**The Admiral**

Georgie wants a cat. Jon’s not quite sure how he feels about cats. He’s never had a pet and frankly the responsibility frightens him. He can barely take care of himself, drinking water and eating on a regular schedule are just things that very frequently manage to slip his mind, despite being necessities for continued existence. He doesn't trust himself to do that for a smaller living creature. He and Georgie live together. He’d been looking for another place when he moved out of his last dismal uni flat with a derelict and constantly grimy kitchen and Georgie had offered to let him stay in the meantime and he’s just never left. 

Jon walks into the shelter holding Georgie’s hand. There isn’t much that doesn’t make him uncomfortable in some way, but Georgie has an uncanny ability for making it manageable. He looked up cats on the shelter’s website last night with Georgie, lying on her bed and eating ice cream, joking about how ridiculous some of the shelter names were, or noticing themes in the naming schemes. How clearly someone was having lunch while naming several new additions, with names like ‘Taco,’ ‘Cilantro,’ ‘Salsa,’ and ‘Pico’ all in a row. 

There are cats everywhere. Spacious kennels line the halls and there are rooms with rows of smaller kennels facing the halls with glass walls featuring signs telling them to ‘Come on in and meet your new best friend!’ He trails Georgie, letting her hand slip out of his as she coos at whichever cat draws her attention. He has to admit that they are all very cute. He passes time waving a wand toy for a tortoise shell in a kennel next to the one Georgie is currently wriggling her fingers at. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he puts the toy down on top of the kennel and turns to see Georgie studying him, smiling at him softly.

She takes his hand again and they wander through some of the rooms. 

“How will we know?” Jon asks, thinking that really any of these cats would make a fine companion.

Georgie shrugs. “I think it's more of an imprecise art than a science. I’ve heard people say that the cat picks you sometimes.”

Hmmm, can cats pick you? Jon isn’t sure. He doesn’t have enough experience with them to be able to speculate. They spend some time enamored with a sleek looking all black cat that stands on her hind legs and bats at the glass door to her enclosure as they pass by. They keep her in mind and keep looking, wanting to give everyone a fair chance. 

Georgie runs into an acquaintance, because _of course she does_ . She runs into people she knows _everywhere_. Jon can’t blame them. Georgie is utterly captivating and has a soothing, steady aura that he’s always been drawn to. It makes sense others would be drawn to her as well. He slips away as they chat, catching Georgie’s eye and her slight nod. New people are a bit overwhelming and she’s never begrudged him his urge to avoid additional discomfort. 

There are a few rooms with large glass windows, showing off an impressive assortment of cat trees, old furniture, and cat beds. There are many cats wandering around the room freely, batting at this or that toy scattered about the floor, and just as many making use of the beds stuffed into and around the various nooks and crannies to have a nap. It’s the sort of place Jon thinks might please him if he were a cat. He opens the door a crack and shuffles in, careful to abide by the sign advising him to ‘Watch for escapee cats!’

There are no other humans in the room and an array of old armchairs available for sitting. They’re covered in cat hair, but he doesn’t mind. He picks a currently unoccupied chair, content to just watch the felines and share in their companionship. A cat atop one of the trees wakes from its nap, stretching and arching its back before jumping down and making its way to a toy in the center of the room. The cat is a ginger tabby with short fur and white socks and Jon very much enjoys the asymmetry of it’s white paws. He watches as it picks a fish toy up in its mouth and jerks its neck to toss it up in the air and swipe at it, chasing after it when it's batted away. After a while, the cat sits upright, tail curled around its paws and makes eye contact with him. 

It makes a noise, an emphatic _prrrrbt,_ and then it picks the fish up and makes its way towards Jon, tail straight up and swishing gently side to side. The cat rubs against his feet and then drops the fish, staring up expectantly. Jon raises a brow. Does...does the cat want him to play fetch? 

He picks the toy up, and gives it a toss. The cat bolts after it and once again returns to Jon with it in tow, dropping it to be thrown again. Jon does so, several more times. He scans the cat portraits and info sheets posted around the room, spying one that matches. It appears his name is Bob, which is just so utterly unfitting, really. He’s shaken from his contemplation on the appropriateness of the name by Bob jumping into his lap, sans fish.

He kneads Jon’s legs for a bit before turning around once and curling up, as close as Jon’s torso as he can get and immediately purring, loud and clear. It fills Jon with a kind of joy and satisfaction he’s not sure he has a comparison for. It makes him feel content, relaxed, in a way that’s not so different from the way Georgie makes him feel. He hesitantly begins to scratch behind his ears and is emboldened by the instantaneous increase in the volume of his purring. 

Georgie quietly opens the door some minutes later, smiling widely. Bob seems to take to her as well, bumping his head into her hand when she stretches it out to pet him. He tells her about the fish and it makes her giggle, a clear sound that makes warmth bubble in his chest. She perches on the arm of the chair and they spend a good long while petting the cat before Georgie says what he’s been thinking.

“I think he might be the one.” 

Jon smiles and nods. “I think he very well could be.” He wrinkles his nose. “He’ll need a new name though.”

Georgie grabs the fish toy, twigging the widening of the cat’s eyes as she dangles it in front of him. “Well he likes fish, and he looks like he’s got fancy white officer gloves on, so how about The Admiral?”

Jon grins, so wide he feels it in his cheeks, the stretch of it is a bit foreign.

“Yes, yes I rather like that.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the hints we get about Jon and Georgie's relationship and I love how much they both care about the Admiral.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Feel free to leave a comment below or to catch me on tumblr @[halfofmysoulistrees](https://halfofmysoulistrees.tumblr.com/). I might take prompts for these, so if there's something you'd like to see me write that is cannon compliant or adjacent, drop me a note. Much love.


End file.
